The Instinct Of Hope (John Clare)

Is there another world for this frail dustTo warm with life and be itself again?Something about me daily speaks there must,And why should instinct nourish hopes in vain?‘Tis nature’s prophesy that such will be,And everything seems struggling to explainThe close sealed volume of its mystery.Time wandering onward keeps its usual paceAs seeming anxious of eternity,To meet that calm and find a resting place.E’en the small violet feels a future powerAnd waits each year renewing blooms to bring,And surely man is no inferior flowerTo die unworthy of a second spring?